Ten days.

Not long at all.

Except when it is.

So I sit here,
   tempted by buttons.

Almost book an earlier flight.

Almost trade patience
   for impulse,
   for the chance to be there

   before the calendar says I should.

Almost tell her…
                something I haven’t yet.

Not because I’m afraid,
    because some words—
    need the weight of presence,

    the clarity of eyes meeting eyes.

Almost feel her hand in mine,
       almost hear her laugh
       without a phone between us,

       almost remember what it’s like
       to trace the shape of her

       without distance in the way.

But almost isn’t quite.

Not yet.

So I wait.

But if ten days can feel
    this close,
    this electric,

    What will it feel like?

    When almost becomes right…
                              *now*?